


an audience of two

by thebriars



Category: Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, M/M, Musician Harley, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:20:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21625177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebriars/pseuds/thebriars
Summary: He’d never been much of a folk guy, but as he listened to the singer’s sound checks, he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d been wrong all these years.~Harley is a musician. Peter likes to watch him play.
Relationships: Harley Keener/Peter Parker
Comments: 4
Kudos: 70





	an audience of two

**Author's Note:**

> my first published parkner fic ahhh

Peter first saw him before the show he played at 7th Street. MJ had been working as a bartender for long enough to convince her manager to give her free tickets to the shows, which she then passed onto Peter, leading to his new hobby of bothering her while she worked and watching the artists go through the motions of a show. It didn’t hurt that it had certainly bolstered his music library, now sprinkled with everything from R&B to 90’s rap to 50’s swing.

Still, he’d never been much of a folk guy, but as he sipped MJ’s latest creation (strong, but not so much so that he would lose himself in the music and not find himself til morning) and listened to the singer’s sound checks, he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d been wrong all these years.

He bounced his leg to the beat as the singer—Harley, if he remembered correctly—meandered through his setlist, strumming absently as the girl working tech adjusted the microphones and arranged wires. Peter felt a smile cross his face, and he wondered if the motorcycle parked by the back door belonged to this Tennessee boy.

MJ watched him curiously. “That drink getting to you, Pete?”

“I’ve hardly had any yet, actually,” he said, never drawing his eyes from the singer.

He was beautiful up there, tapping the toe of his worn boots against the equally weathered boards of the stage. The lighting shifted as the tech girl flicked through the cues, illuminating the planes of his face in purple, red, blue. He didn’t seem to mind, though, his eyes falling closed as his fingers deftly wandered across the strings.

Peter felt as though he were sinking into the ocean, waters warm and comforting, and if he was reading the room right, he would be more than willing to drown later on that night.

The singer (Peter had glanced over to check the flyers tacked to the pillar at the end of the bar, and he was indeed Harley) opened his eyes at last, pale blue glittering in the flash of gold light that suddenly swung out across the stage, and Peter ducked his head, taking a sip of the drink.

MJ chuckled, the mirth in her eyes an understanding one, and handed him a rag. “Might as well help me dry these glasses, lover-boy.”

“Lover-boy?” Peter said, false incredulity coloring his voice. He took the rag and stretched across the bar to reach one of the glasses MJ had pulled from the washer.

“I know what you look like when you’re interested.”

Peter huffed, trying to seem indifferent, but a laugh from the stage had him whirling to see if Harley was its source (he was). MJ swiped at him with her rag. “For the record, he’s a real nice guy. Hasn’t flirted with me or Gwen over there yet.”

“That’s good,” Peter said, dutifully drying another glass and trying not to think too much about what Harley could be doing behind him. Smiling, chatting with a stagehand, messing with his tuner...

They finished the drying and Harley disappeared with his guitar, back to the green room to get ready for the seven o’clock show. The room felt empty without him, even as attendees began trickling into the low-ceilinged venue, flocking around MJ as she skillfully shook and poured and swirled.

Peter helped her as much as he could, slipping around to the other side of the bar and letting her boss him around with a sharp glance and pointed finger and barked instruction. It was funny to watch her get so passionate about the drinks she made and especially hilarious to watch her get increasingly frazzled. He could swear that her hair got curlier as she became more and more harried, but eventually the swarm of customers trickled into a small pool of stragglers.

“Show’s about to start,” he said to MJ, earning her attention for a moment.

“Just the opener, Pete.”

“Oh.” He didn’t know how to feel about the way his heart sank. MJ shook her head at him and went back to whipping up a cocktail for the guy waiting at the bar.

The opener came and went in a blur of harsh electric beats and a drum that seemed to shake Peter’s bones. Good music, certainly, but too much noise and power for a room built to accompany the slightest twang of a guitar. He tapped his foot regardless, leaning against the bar and polishing off his drink from earlier with a flourish.

But it was the silence afterwards that sent something into his heart; something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Anticipation mixed with expectation and a sense of resolute contentment that he wasn’t sure he recognized. It was as if his every atom was perfectly aware of what was to come and knew that it was going to be special.

Peter felt as though he was flying.

Harley appeared on stage as if by magic, suddenly there and suddenly real. He was backlit by soft purple, which spread across the stage to reveal him in all his glory. Tall and lean and wearing a neatly pressed button-down and dark jeans. He adjusted the strap of his guitar and moved the capo from the head to the neck, about two frets down, and cleared his throat before leaning into his mic.

“Welcome,” he said, voice low, and Peter was nearly humming in anticipation.

He didn’t say much else, and instead tapped the toe of his scrappy boot against the floor, once, twice, three times, and struck a harsh chord on his guitar.

And then he sang.

Peter, for all his sobriety, was gone, carried away on a minor chord and the way Harley’s eyes seemed to pass over his post at the bar every other minute, and he was no longer in a dingy music bar in East Village but upon a ship that sailed far, far away from the realms of reality.

And then he was awake.

There was applause, and Harley bowed neatly, a tight smile on his lips. His eyes darted out once more and locked on Peter’s, who couldn’t quite bring himself to clap, but instead bit the inside of his cheek until it smarted.

 _Lover-boy_ , MJ mouthed, and he flashed her a quick grin before slipping away, out into the warm night air and around the side of the building to the alley. He didn’t quite know where his feet were taking him, but it somehow felt right, and the feeling of contentment didn’t fade as he stood in the edge of the streetlight’s reach, watching the flood of people crowd out the door and disperse across the street. He relished the darkness and the way he could breathe again, although he didn’t think he’d be able to for long.

Harley appeared rather quickly, as if he knew Peter would be waiting there, carrying his guitar case and wearing a patched jean jacket. _How is he real?_ Peter thought.

“Hi,” he said, and Harley smiled.

“I was hoping you’d be here.”

Peter moved down the alley to the steps that descended from the back door, catching up to Harley as he scampered down them with ease.

“Why’d you hope for that?” Peter asked teasingly.

“There’s usually someone who looks a bit more taken by the music than the others,” Harley said, a smile in his voice as he dug in the pocket of his jeans for the keys to the motorcycle parked just beside the stairs.

“I’m not surprised.” Peter held his breath. “You got anywhere to be?”

“Not really. I’m camping out at a friend’s for the weekend, but no plans.” Harley paused. “What’s your name?”

“Peter.”

“Harley.”

“I know.”

Harley scoffed a little, earning a grin from Peter, who eyed the motorcycle. He’d always wanted to ride one.

“Wanna come back to my place? For a drink? Or coffee, if you don’t drink. Or just to talk. Sorry.” _Stumbling over your words again, Parker. Classy._

Harley smiled—actually smiled this time—and ducked his head. Peter wondered if, had there been more light, he would have seen a faint blush spread across his cheeks. “I’d love to.”

“Great,” Peter said, with a little more gusto than intended. “I mean,” he backtracked, “I have a little apartment over by Washington Square Park.”

“If you tell me how to get there, I’ll give you a ride.”

“Perfect.”

Riding the bike was a lot more exhilarating than Peter expected. Harley lent him his helmet, despite Peter’s protests, but he was glad for it once Harley gunned it down 11th street, wind whipping his hair back against the visor of Peter’s helmet. His breath snatched from him, both by the speed and the way Harley felt against him, he tightened his arms around Harley’s waist and pressed his cheek into the space between his shoulder blades. The weight of Harley’s guitar, strapped to his back, kept him anchored to the earth, but his mind was soaring high above them both.

New York flashed around them, a blur of color and light, and Peter wished he and Harley were heading back to Queens, where he could sneak them onto the roof and gaze out at the skyline for eternity.

But his apartment was fine, too, though he found himself regretting that he hadn’t cleaned up like he’d promised Aunt May he would. Harley didn’t seem the type to care about textbooks and empty coffee mugs, but first impressions were important, as Ben had always reminded him.

They parked, and Peter dismounted shakily, reveling in the steadying hand against the small of his back. Harley took the guitar, swinging it easily over his shoulder, and the helmet, which he carried against his hip as Peter guided them upstairs to the third-floor apartment.

It was small, and a little messier than he remembered it being, but as Peter flicked the lights on, Harley wandered into the middle of the living room without hesitation. He glanced down at the coffee table and the pages of notes and highlighted textbooks covering it, and Peter swore he saw a flicker of melancholy in his eyes.

“Chemical engineering?”

“I’m in my third year at NYU.”

“So you’re smart.”

Peter laughed. “I guess. Not very, but sometimes.”

“I doubt that,” Harley said, throwing him a grin over his shoulder and settling the helmet atop a particularly hefty tome. He deposited the guitar against the arm of the couch and turned to Peter, who still stood in the entryway, unlacing his sneakers. “You said you had coffee?”

“Oh, plenty.”

He put the kettle on and watched covertly as Harley made his way to the front windows. He stood there and gazed out over the rooftops towards Lower Manhattan, hands in his pockets. Harley bounced a little, rising up onto the balls of his feet as if he were settling into himself again. Peter remembered the way he felt after a particularly good debate session in high school—a little separated from himself, like he was coming out of a dream—and thought he knew what Harley was doing.

The kettle began its tinny whistle and he flicked off his stove, which was more of a relic than a working appliance, noticing that the noise had caught Harley’s attention at last. The feeling of those clear blue eyes following his movements through the kitchen sent him flying back into daydreams again, and he couldn’t fill the mugs fast enough.

“Cream?” he asked, rather pleased with how normal his voice sounded. He felt _anything_ but normal.

“Yes, please.” _(Oh, that accent.)_

He brought their mugs over without spilling any, remarkably, and they sat carefully on the couch. Peter folded his legs up and tucked his knees against his chest, the alcohol from hours ago catching up to him as the hour hand crept closer to midnight. Harley sat neatly, southern manners lining his frame, and Peter tried to disappear into the steam of his drink for a moment.

“So,” he began at last, “you’re from Tennessee?”

“Born and raised,” Harley said, but something about his forced smile made Peter think he should leave the topic alone. “You’re a native, aren’t you?”

“Queens. Grew up with my aunt and uncle, and then just my aunt.”

Harley nodded, choosing not to comment on the loss of Ben in the equation, for which Peter was grateful.

“When’d you start to play?” he asked, jerking his head towards the guitar case.

“Gosh, probably when I was two. My old man played, so as soon as I could sit up, I was sitting up with a guitar. ‘Course, when he left, I moved out to the garage so as not to bother my ma, but it’s always been the same.”

“You’re good,” Peter said, looking up at Harley from where he’d been blowing ripples across his coffee, clearing away the steam. “I don’t know shit about music and I can tell.”

“Breaking out the flattery already?”

“Of course. Us New Yorkers are always honest, you know.”

“A nice change of pace,” Harley quipped, and he seemed to settle back a bit, leaning into the cushions and kicking one boot up against the edge of the coffee table.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, sipping coffee and watching headlights flicker by on the street below until Peter worked up the courage to say something again.

“Since we’re being honest,” he started, “I’ve never felt like this before.”

“Me neither.”

“I really, really want to hear you sing again.”

“I kind of want to sing for you.”

“Would you?”

Harley didn’t say a thing, but instead put his coffee down atop a stray coaster that had somehow risen above the tide of homework and clutter. He stretched back to grab the guitar case, unzipping it deftly and carefully extracting the instrument. Peter watched him intently, admiring the line of his jaw and the dip of his collarbone, just visible above the first button of his shirt.

He watched as Harley’s fingers passed across the strings, his touch nearly reverent in a way that mirrored Peter’s own awe. He paused, thinking, before he smiled.

He cleared his throat quietly.

A simple, quick succession of notes plucked out with ease and grace unparalleled by the finest of dancers, and Harley’s voice, soft and clear.

_“The Virgin Mary, all dressed in blue, sings ‘My First Lover’ for an audience of two…”_

He looked peaceful, concentration giving way to familiarity, and the guitar swayed beneath his touch. 

_“New York boy, all dressed in black; old leather boots, old soles intact…”_

_“Time moves forward, and time moves back, like a mixed-up engineer on an endless railroad track…”_

He seemed to move in time with the music, strumming out both rhythm and melody at once, and when the lyrics faded to let the guitar sing instead, Peter felt as though he were melting into himself.

_“Miles to go from me to you, from a town that gets old to the city that’s new…”_

_“This flame burns brighter with every poem read; this bird flies higher with the song up in her head…”_

_“Time moves slow and time moves fast, oh, the future now will soon be past…”_

And then he was done, hand falling slowly, the pick loose between his fingers, and before he could open his eyes, Peter had moved across the space dividing them as effortlessly as Harley sang, searching for a kiss to seal the night. He found one, lips parting beneath Harley’s, guitar wedged against Peter’s chest, a hand cradling his face as they separated, breathing hard.

Harley huffed a laugh and nudged his nose against Peter’s, who smiled in a way he rarely did.

“How long are you in the city?” Peter asked quietly, air having returned to him at last.

“As long as I want to be,” Harley responded, the lilt in that pretty voice of his just as enchanting as it had been moments before.

“Good,” Peter said. “I want to know what else you can sing.”

**Author's Note:**

> the song (it's on spotify and itunes too and it's a boppp): [Song Up In Her Head by Sarah Jarosz](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kdM89_88cdM)
> 
> i really hope you guys enjoyed this! i've been starting a ton of parkner wips lately but i was listening to this song and the idea for this short lil fic got stuck in my head. 
> 
> leave a comment if you feel so inclined and come be my pal on [tumblr.](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thebriars) (i really want to get to know people in this fandom and i promise i don't bite!) thank you for reading!


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